Finding X
by Orion Kohaishu
Summary: "I know, right?" Stiles gestures helplessly at the steadfast pillar of stupidity currently gracing the backyard. "I swear, he called me out like the OK Corral. It was awesome." - Sterek future-fic, prequel/companion piece to "Futile Devices"


Stiles is halfway through chapter six section three when he hears the unmistakable sound of a rifle cocking; it says a lot about the last six years of his life that his only response is a perturbed sigh. He glances through the bay window at the three… well, calling them 'men' is probably being too generous, they're maybe his age, probably younger, teens even, that are standing in the woods like a walking cliché – they've got a rifle or two each, pistols hanging from crossed bandoliers and bullets that twinkle in the sunlight, and they're dressed like they've just been rejected from that _Van Helsing_ movie in head-to-toe leather and overcoats and wide-brimmed hats and protective amulets that Stiles can tell are fake, even from a distance. He almost wants to laugh. Almost.

"Kitchen door is for family only!" he calls to them as he heads for the fridge. "Go around!"

"Alpha Hale!" This one must be the leader, Stiles imagines, because his brim is the widest and his boots have the most buckles on them and he plants himself dramatically two feet in front of his friends with a rather vintage-looking rifle leveled at the glass in one wavering hand. Good projection, Stiles thinks, deciding on a soda. He probably took a drama class in high school or something. Fuck, he's probably _still_ taking it. Goddamn high school LARPers. The manboy's coat swishes behind him dramatically as he waits, still holding his rifle like he's about to take ten paces and fire. Yep. It's gonna be one of those days.

"Alpha Hale's not in right now," he calls back, adding Diet Coke to the grocery list on the fridge before rooting around helplessly in the very back. "Please leave a message after the beep." Pumping his fist victoriously, he finds a lone can in the far corner, wedged between one of three half-empty jars of mayonnaise and a takeout container of dubious Thai food. Werewolves are disgusting, he thinks as he pops the can open gleefully. I'm gone a full week and the place devolves into a frat house. Great. The three musketeers are still posed for maximum dramatic effect and glaring daggers through the window when he emerges. "Beep?" he adds as an afterthought.

"I know what you are!" the leader proclaims at him – seriously. Proclaims. He feels like it's the Victorian era or something equally as ridiculous.

"Say it," he growls under his breath, mostly to himself, because it is nine in the morning and he has had more than enough of Captain Crazy and the Kids here. "So you know how terrible an idea it would be to shoot me, then." The Kids look an adorable mix of confused and afraid, like puppies, and Captain Crazy's tremor appears worse – he's not terribly worried that he'll be shot, not with the gun shaking like that, but he'd still prefer the rifle go somewhere far away. Just in case.

It doesn't.

He groans, gazing forlornly at the open textbook on the table. "Listen, is this going to take long? Because, just saying, I got homework, and x isn't gonna find itself."

"Abomination!" Captain Crazy declares, and Stiles has the overwhelming urge to rewatch the _Pride and Prejudice_ remake, the one with Keira Knightley – not that he would ever admit to having seen it once, let alone as many times as he has ('seventy-three,' the voice in his head that loves rubbing his nose in his secret love of chick flicks supplies. 'You've watched it seventy-three times.' 'Keira Knightley,' he retorts, because _Keira Knightley_. 'And Matthew McBaritone.' The voice in his head agrees that today might be the day to make it seventy-four.) "You are an enemy to mankind, an affront to all humanity!"

"Okay," Stiles says, finally unlocking the kitchen door. "Okay. Bro. Calm down." The Kids take an uneasy step backwards, glancing like they might run, but Captain Crazy's trembling rifle tracks Stiles' movement onto the back porch. "First off, ow. Words can really hurt, you know – affront to humanity? _Really_? And second, who the hell even talks like this anymore? It's the twenty-first century, you know that, right? Can't you just call me a douchebag or something?" Devil's advocate though, 'affront to humanity' sounded _way_ more badass than 'douchebag.' It was actually pretty awesome, like hilarious and ironic nickname awesome. Pretty sure he was changing his name on Facebook as soon as he sent the Kids home.

The Kids are inching back the way they've come with each step Stiles takes; he's stopped at the edge of the porch, still very much in his territory and with no inclination to move further, but the Kids keep going, back into the trees. Smart kids, Stiles thinks.

"Hellspawn!" Captain Crazy bellows, and then there's the crack of a rifle and-

"OW!" Stiles clutches his side, dropping to his knees and hissing and ow ow ow oh god he's been shot this is what being shot feels like oh my god this is the worst thing that's ever happened to him his side is on fire oh my god. "MOTHERFUCKING OW! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR?" And yeah, okay, he hears his dad's voice in his head this time, he's been shot and he hears his dad's voice. 'Language!' is all it says, and he's probably not going to die then.

The Kids have officially lost their shit. One has thrown his gun to the ground to fumble for a cell phone, tears and snot leaking down his face as he keeps up a constant, obnoxious litany of 'oh god oh god oh god.' Stiles agrees. The other has gone white as a sheet and just stares, not even blinking, and he's probably in shock or dead or wetting his pants or something. Stiles doesn't care because, hello, _he's been shot_.

Captain Crazy looks at the crimson staining his shirt like he's never seen the color red before, lips parting as no sound comes out. The tremor is gone, but so is the bravado; he looks even younger than Stiles originally thought. "You SHOT me?" Captain Crazy shakes his head like he's trying to deny it, even though he's (almost literally) holding a smoking gun. "Why did you SHOOT ME?"

He feels like he's about to pass out.

Captain Crazy starts crying, really pathetic, ugly crying, and even though he's just been shot and is probably about to pass out, Stiles feels a small measure of vindictive pleasure. "That wasn't supposed to hurt you, oh god, you were just supposed to get scared, I had no idea it would hurt you-"

"No idea it would hurt me?" Okay, so Captain Crazy is incredibly stupid as well as insane. Great. Kids these days. "YOU SHOT ME! WITH A GUN!"

He shakes his head again, and Stiles has to fight the urge to nod at him, equally as defiant. "You were supposed to heal it or something, they said you would heal, it's not even silver-"

OH.

Oh. My. God.

Oh my god, these kids are so stupid, they are literally too stupid to live, but this is also probably the funniest thing that has ever happened to him and his one regret (must be the blood loss) is that Derek is not here to fully appreciate how hilarious this is.

Stiles laughs – and winces and coughs and chokes a little bit – "Wait, wait. Wait. So you a) thought I was a werewolf and b) thought I was a werewolf and _didn't bring silver bullets_?" His laughter is hoarser now, probably due to the bullet hole in his side – bullet graze, more accurately, but somehow it's less manly to admit that he was only grazed ('than it is to admit you've seen _Pride and Prejudice_ seventy-three times?' the voice in his head that is enjoying his pain just a little too much asks. He doesn't answer.) "How are you even alive?"

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Derek says, casually leaning against a tree behind the Kids. The one that hasn't already done so probably wets himself at that, and he drops his cell phone into the dirt; Captain Crazy Stupid squeaks like he's been kicked below the belt.

Stiles manages a grin in Derek's direction, warm and light and full of something that is not shock or hurt or just-got-shot; Derek grins back, just for a moment. "Der, oh my god," he pats the porch beside him. "Buddy, you have got to hear this."

He unfolds from the tree and stalks – literally stalks, like he's putting on a show for the cowering masses. Derek's always been fond of stupid kids who are in way over their heads – toward him, crouching down to poke none too gently at his side; yep. Definitely just grazed. Maybe stitches, probably just a bandage. Well, that's somehow oddly disappointing.

The rifle cocks again – _really_?

"Alpha Hale!" Captain Crazy Stupid begins again, his voice now a dangerous six octaves above where it was before. Derek snickers.

"I know, right?" Stiles gestures helplessly at the steadfast pillar of stupidity currently gracing the backyard. "I swear, he called me out like the OK Corral. It was _awesome_."

The grin hasn't left either of their faces. "He did not."

"Swear," Stiles says, extending the pinky finger that isn't currently coated in his blood – they should really get that looked at, preferably soon, instead of just sitting at the edge of the porch like this. "He called me an 'affront to humanity.'" And this time, Derek throws his head back when he laughs, full and warm and bright.

"Oh man," he says when he can finally talk around the happiness that oozes off him like sunshine. "You need to Facebook that shit."

And this is his life now, he thinks, warm sunshine and hanging on the back porch with his best friend – the not Scott one, which is weird because Scott's been his best friend for as long as he's been alive, but Derek takes up a different space in his life, one softer and solider and more confusing. Only minus the usual pizzas and Cokes, and with the unfortunate addition of a gunshot wound; but, you know, they're here and they're happy, and what can you do.

"I know what you are!" Captain Crazy tries again, and this time his voice is pitched somewhere around the level of the distant sirens that are rapidly closing ground. Stiles laughs until he feels lightheaded, although, come to think of it, he could just be in shock.

"Oh god, it hurts, it hurts to laugh." And it does, it really does, but it's okay because he's laughing so hard it feels like he's about to split in half, just burst at the seams because he's so happy he can't hold it in, and Derek is grinning, really grinning, down at him and leaning against him and it's good. He's been shot, but it's good. "Please tell me you didn't call 911." Cell Phone Kid looks vaguely guilty. "Oh my god, you did. You shot me and you called 911, this is literally the best day of my life."

Captain Crazy clears his throat nervously. "Abominati-"

"Shut the hell up," Stiles' dad tells him, rounding the side of the house with a murderous expression. "Which one of you shot my kid?"

Stumbling over themselves in their haste to implicate their leader, the Kids all but throw him towards the Sheriff, overlapping their litanies of 'he did it it was Kyle Kyle totally shot him oh my god he's crazy I tried to stop him I was so scared I'm so sorry please don't call my mom' until they're effectively silenced by the glares both Stilinski men are currently sporting. Derek's still laughing too hard to be threatening, and Stiles makes a mental note with the voice in his head to do something really obnoxious later as payback ('change his ringtone to Call Me Maybe,' the voice in his head that knows exactly what Derek hates most suggests. 'And then change his phone settings to be in Portuguese.' 'Whoa,' Stiles responds, impressed. 'Who are you, Satan? Am I Satan?' 'Yes, Stiles,' the much put upon voice in his head says. 'You're Satan.')

He nods gruffly. "I see. Stiles, seeing as Derek is sitting there calmly and these kids are all very much intact, I'm going to hazard a guess that you're doing okay."

Stiles salutes smartly. "Just a graze."

The Sheriff nods again, but rolls his shoulders and pinches the bridge of his nose, probably wondering where along the way this became his life and yeah, Stiles can relate. "Why'd you shoot my kid?"

Captain Crazy – _Kyle_ – stands his ground against the law about as well as he does against werewolves: without wetting himself, but with the quaver in his voice shooting all the way through him until he's shaking like a leaf and sounding like a member of the Lollipop Guild. "He's… we thought he was… this is Alpha Hale's house…"

"_Oh_," the Sheriff says, drawing the word out like it's a threat and lowering his sunglasses to make rather dangerous eye contact. "So you were trying to shoot Derek."

The Kids almost fall over from shaking their heads so hard, but Kyle nods in what is probably his worst decision of the day. "Yes sir." But he realizes his mistake quickly, voice breaking through to a previously undiscovered register. "Well, I mean, he's a monster, he's dangerous, it's really like a… a…"

"Public service," Cell Phone Kid supplies.

"Public service! He's a werewolf, one full moon he'll descend on your town and ravage you as you sleep-"

("It's like I've died and gone to DunDraCon," Stiles whispers to Derek.

"I don't like his choice of verbs," Derek responds.)

"He's _evil_!" Kyle explains, gesturing emphatically toward the porch, where Derek is evilly giving in the impulse to poke at Stiles' wound again; Stiles swats his hand away with a fond smile and a pained wince. "He must be stopped!"

"Agreed," Stiles mutters.

"Uh-huh." The Sheriff's tone effectively silences all three of the now-cowering kids, an impressive feat given Kyle's seemingly-endless prepared monologue. "So that's… premeditated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, felony conspiracy, attempted manslaughter, intent to commit great bodily harm… You want to tack a trespassing charge on to all that, _Deputy Hale_?"

Derek grins, slow and predatory. "That last bit there sounded like slander to me," and yeah, Kyle's crying now. Through the fuzzy warm-cold feeling of a bullet graze and waning shock, Stiles identifies that lingering, familiar emotion that settled into his gut sometime over the course of his senior year, curling like a puppy, soft and subtle, that he attributes to friendship and nothing else ("absolutely nothing else," he tells the voice in his head, who for once does not respond aside from violently rolling its eyes at him). "Or," and Derek's voice is smooth and low now, almost playful. Definitely just friendship, yep. "We could just not press charges." Kyle and the Kids nod so vigorously that Stiles is worried their necks might snap right off.

"But wait," Stiles turns toward Derek, tongue poking between his lips in confusion. "Doesn't that mean they're under _our_ jurisdiction?" His face is warmed with more than the sun when Derek grins. Kyle and the Kids switch seamlessly into frantically shaking their heads.

"They attacked the Alpha _in his home_," Derek nods solemnly. "That's like a declaration of _war._" It's devolved from headshaking to full body shaking at this point, and Cell Phone Kid looks suspiciously close to some sort of attack, asthma or panic, so the Sheriff glares fondly at them.

"It's up to you," he offers like it's some grand gesture of goodwill, and Stiles and Derek pretend to consider for a minute – Kyle and the Kids look like they might pass out. After sharing a few eyebrow raises and a half-smile or two that passes for conversation around here, Stiles nods smartly. Derek grins.

"Trespassing. And vandalism." Kyle and the Kids deflate, shaking limbs lowering them none too slowly to the ground.

Stiles grins. "And call their moms." ('Yeah,' the voice in his head that is freaky sadistic cackles gleefully. 'You're definitely Satan.')

Kyle and the Kids are tearfully loaded into the back of a police cruiser, whimpering and sniffling and generally pathetic, when Derek pulls away from Stiles and the five-sex-seven stitches, almost done now, you're going to be fine. Leaving all traces of smiling and good mood on the back porch, he's full out red-eyed Alpha when he gets to them; the Sheriff is beside him, arms crossed in support, so he's like ninety percent probably not going to kill anyone, maybe – "Don't kill anyone!" Stiles calls cheerfully after him, and Derek spares the time and the reputation to roll his eyes. Kyle breaks out into hysterics. The Kids almost break the window trying to escape.

"You attacked a member of my pack," he tells them, because if it's a werewolf they want, well, they're going to get one. "In our territory, unprovoked. You broke the law _and_ the Hunter's code, and I could kill you right now without a single repercussion – the only reason you're alive is because of that guy you just shot, but he's a one in a million kind of guy and I doubt anyone else would be that generous. I would be rethinking most of your life choices right now, if I were you." He smiles again, all human this time, and pats his hand on the roof of the car. "I better not see any of you again," and for once, he and the Kids are seeing eye to eye.

* * *

They _do_ see Kyle again.

They're in the way back of the stands, the uppermost corner, but even through the crowds and the distance and the two years later, he definitely notices them – his speech falters, just once, and when he picks it back up it's the same high-pitched tone they remember. Stiles grins at him and flashes a thumbs up, but it doesn't help; if anything, it causes the sheen of sweat on his forehead to increase, and he nervously wipes it away with the sash around his shoulders.

"I can't believe Kyle got Valedictorian."

"I can't believe I let you talk me into coming," Derek says as he slings his arm back, across the rails and Stiles' shoulders to flick his ear fondly; Stiles grins at him, open and warm, because it's eight years and he knows better. "He shot you."

"Well, yeah," Stiles' tongue pokes through the corner of his smile. "He did a bit."

"A Firefly reference," he says around a grin that should really, _really_, be illegal in some way. "This might be love."

There's a familiar clenching in his chest, a moment of heat and breathlessness that started sometime around his own high school graduation and has only burned stronger in the six years since, and even though it's been two years now he's not sure he'll ever be used to _this_, this thing between them that is safe and familiar and real. "This must be what going mad feels like," he whispers against Derek's lips, and yeah. Yeah it is.


End file.
